


It's Hard for Me to say "I Love You" (But I do!)

by Antimisma



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: FrUK, M/M, Slight GerFra Brotp if you squint, mention of Rusame, mention of gerita, prompt: it's really hard for me to say I love you, written for fruk week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 12:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11509548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antimisma/pseuds/Antimisma
Summary: Just when England thought that his relationship with France was broken beyond repair......





	1. The Ruins of Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hey, this fic was written for fruk week, inspired by the prompt "It's really hard to say I love you, but I do". It started as a oneshot that spiralled out of control into a multichapter fic, but you can always skip to the end and read from chapter 5, to get at that promised line which is the prompt!

At half-past three in the morning, Arthur wraps his mitten-insulated hands around a hot baking tray.

  


He pulls out of his oven a batch of souffles — standing proud and puffed up in several flavours — orange blossom, French vanilla, pistachio, lemon and so on. With a critical eye, he carefully puts them down.

  


So they dot his already crowded mahogany breakfast table. Swim amidst bowls filled with stuffed figs, pastries piled upon lavish porcelain plates, and a hearty mille crepe cake that brings this all together in a picture of domestic felicity.     

  


It’s enough food to comfortably feed an army. But in the zero-dark hours of the morning, there’s only Arthur sitting down in his apartment to not-really-appreciate it. He listens to the droning of the London traffic outside of his apartment. Listlessly pokes at his empty plate with a fork. It’s just him, and his tired eyes, and his shoulders sore from cooking all night — aching to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

  


Mirthlessly, he entertains the scenario of what would happen if a few nations happened to stumble through his doorstep. Spot the burgeoning breakfast spread he’s set up all on his own. Have their minds blown, because surprise-surprise _obviously_ England can cook...it’s been centuries and he’s not stupid.

  


Then England snaps out of it. Executes this notion with absolute swiftness. With a cool flame slicking across his skin, he thinks: “nonononono — the world must never know — never find out — _he must never be known to cook competently._

  


_Why?_

  


Because he is England. English. Horrible-foodland. God Save the Queen, tally-ho and whatnot. It’s who he is, of course.

  


Arthur gags at how quickly this self-deluding lie comes to his mind. “Bullshit.” He’s perfectly aware of the truth. England looks tiredly over his shoulder, at the kitchen counter behind him, where he knows what he’ll see.

  


He sees the phantom of an old memory: A slender and handsome figure.  Whose blue-ribboned ponytail is swept elegantly over his right shoulder. His nimble hands flying over the stove, adjusting all the buttons, as his lively eyes keep track of all the things bubbling and stewing. He’s got an apron tied around his hips, and he speaks with a gentle voice, teasing, “Oh Angleterre, what would you do without me cooking for you in the morning? Why, die of food poisoning of course.”

  


Then, there are even more distant memories, of a delicately beautiful youth calling across the fields to a stubborn bushy-browed barbarian— to come feast on the fish that he’s caught and cooked with a delicious mix of wild herbs — before it grows cold.  

  


Gaul. France. Francis.

  


He doesn’t visit anymore. Not since  **The Quarrel** . The lock of his apartment hasn’t been broken for ages. A pretty face hasn’t poked his head through the door — to remark upon incorrigible Angleterre and his damp little island — for the longest time.

  


Even though England has kept everything else the same — his stuffy attitude — his stuffier sweater vests — his horrible taste — everything that France would want to taunt England over, and more.  

  


So shouldn’t France be here by now to insult everything with his poncey accent.

  


Shouldn’t that be the way things are?  
  


 

If, there is light, there is shadow. If there are heights, there are abysses.

  


If there is English artlessness, then there is French finesse.

  


~~So where is Francis now?~~

 

 

It’s an absurd instinct, carried to the finest degree of stupidity. But Arthur is despondent and desperate. He will stubbornly cling to his faults and foibles, because they are the scraps of what he has left of their light-and-shadow, point-and-counterpoint, intertwined past relationship.  And maybe, maybe if he waits long enough he’ll come back...the dead will rise from their graves...and frozen lakes will burst ablaze...The bright days will return...

  


Sitting at the breakfast table alone, staring at all the dishes, Arthur knows he is waiting for a moment that will never come. He had thought that maybe making a breakfast spread of his own could bring back the comforting nostalgia of the past. Instead, too many vivid little memories of better breakfasts crowd around the plates and bowls, gibbering and yammering, and just making Arthur feel queasy, and unbearably sick.

  


He ends up bringing all the breakfast foodstuffs to this homeless shelter. The lady in charge“Are you sure you want to give this all away? Again?”

  


“Sure,” Arthur replies.   

  


_After all, it’s not as if I have anyone I to share this breakfast with._

  


England walks home alone.


	2. Things that Change

Really, if anything, England had thought that his relationship with France would end in a cataclysmic catharsis of centuries of hatred. The fallout would have been stupendous, the impression made on the world indelible. 

  
  


Never in his wildest imaginings would he have expected for it to end in a gradual slide into total obsolescence. Not when for centuries Europe and the world seemed to revolve around Anglo-Franco powerplay and rivalry. These days France and England seem less politically relevant, especially in relation to each other. 

  
  


The final nail in the coffin was Brexit. 

  
  


Now England just sits at the back of meetings, watching France and Germany run the EU like an old married couple. Their dynamic is so powerful, they have become the de-facto runners of world meetings. Germany is relentless focus and brutal efficiency, forcing discussions to stay on track. Whereas France is silver-tongued, and quick-witted. He soothes the ruffled feathers of nations whose squabbles are halted by Germany, holds the attention of the world with clever quips, and generally maintains an amiable balance in the atmosphere, that facilitates the smooth running of meetings. 

  
  


The two are undeniably a power couple. What place does England have in this new world? 

  
  


In this, Italy is sympathetic. Sure, he appears bubbly as always on the outside. But Arthur knows that in truth, Feliciano is a complete wreck. He’s guilty about how his economy just isn't holding up, compared to the other EU economies. Hence, his disastrous breakup with Germany a few years back. Shortly after that, England had stumbled upon Italy in Prague, hysterically hitting on anything that walked on two legs, before collapsing from a pub-run induced alcohol poisoning. Since then, they’ve shared something of a silent understanding. Arthur checking in on Feliciano, to make sure his self-medicating doesn’t go out of control, and the sweetheart giving him gifts of limoncello and chocolates in to ease his pain in turn. 

  
  


“Dude, you okay?” Alfred asks, concerned, poking his arm with a pen, and rousing him from his reminiscences. Like this, America only manages to remind England that while only a tiny strip of water separates England from France, but a whole Atlantic ocean separates him from the American, it is Alfred who is seated by his side in his meeting. While Francis (and Arthur  _ knows _ he’s in charge of the seating arrangements), has found it fit to fling him as far away from his royal Frenchiness as possible.  

  
  


Something inside him snaps. Deep down, England is still a spoilt and selfish brat — that wants attention — and will throw violent tempers if that is what it takes to get some. 

  
  


When he and Francis happen to be in the same room alone (the latter innocently turning to the coffee machine for a drink), Arthur convolutes some topic raised during the meeting, angles it at France, and rips into him.

  
  


Let it never be said that the English are not gifted at bloodsport. In a matter of minutes, Arthur conjures up saints set on fire during the Hundred Years War. Sobbing surrendering French foot soldiers slaughtered on the battlefields of Agincourt. William the Conqueror’s Harrying of the North. The British military conquest of Canada. French-funded American Wars of Independence...and so on. 

  
  


The effect is instantaneous. Francis changes from a graceful sylph, to an Angel of Death. His blue eyes become burning sapphire that can raze and maim. His creamy complexioned countenance becomes becomes cold ivory. His features are angular and cutting, far from the wide fond smiles the Nation of Love is so famed for melting into.

  
  


There is even blood spilt.    

  
  


_ "You know what _ ," Arthur thinks, " _ maybe this is what we’ve been reduced to, this is as good as we’re going to get along…..." _

 

And he resigns himself to it.


	3. The Things that Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: 
> 
> \- Spoilers for the Alexandre Dumas' novel The Count of Monte Cristo. But nothing vitally important to the plot!
> 
> \- also pretentious exercise in what I hope counts as lit crit

Fate though, occasionally gets bored of melodrama. Sometimes other strings are pulled, other forces, set in motion.  Situations transform into things startlingly foreign......and completely alien.

 

It happens one afternoon, on another world meeting. After a particularly productive session, when all the centuries-old minds of the nations were surprisingly engaged in heated intellectual debate,  Germany calls for a **four hour** recess, just to positively reinforce that behaviour.

 

England sees no need to leave the building then. He settles down in some inconspicuous corner with an armchair, and pulls out a massive novel to read. The words thrum gently through his mind. The weight of it in his lap is comforting.  

 

Unfortunately, he is soon interrupted. France shows up, with sleek glasses, an attache, and a few papers in hand. He says something about his boss needing England to sign the papers. England pointedly ignores him. France can just leave the paperwork on the table and sod off. What’s the point. It’s not as if they have anything meaningful to say to each other.

 

Besides, Arthur’s getting to one of his favourite parts of the novel. The skies could come crashing down, and the Brit couldn’t care less, especially if it had no plot significance.   

 

And then, abruptly, the book is snatched from his hands. England is jarred from his meditative reading state. He looks up to hiss at France with fire, fury, and shock.

 

France is scrutinising the cover of the novel with piercing eyes, before he jeers out “Angleterre — you’re reading _The Count of Monte Cristo_?”

 

Arthur blinks, just as surprised as France is. He had just let his hands grab a book from his bookshelf in his apartment, guided by the whim of his heart, before he’d started reading, and didn't stop. He hadn’t, for a moment, considered the nationality of the book, or noticed the unfamiliarity of its language, when he had perused the pages. Now Arthur expects taunts about the undeniable superiority of the French language, along with rounds and rounds of humiliation utilizing this as ammunition.  

 

Instead, France is furious, snarling out: “You finally pick up one of my works, at long last after so many years. You could have stories of fairies, of paradise, of kinship, just about anything beautiful. But you choose — you choose Angleterre — to bloat yourself on a story of **_REVENGE?_ ** ”

 

For a terrifying split-second, England finds himself buckling under the weight of France’s gaze, which is creaking with the baggage of thousands of years, seizing with mangled corpses trying to tear away from the silence that holds them back...stinking with gangrene and rotting blood...

 

But old habits die hard. Under fire, Arthur whips out his intellectual halberd and charges Francis.

 

“What are you buggering on about you gormless berk. Did you even read the Sparknotes for The Count of Monte Cristo? Fine, this is a book about the Count’s vicious revenge against those who have so grievously wronged him. But you would have to be blind not to see that there is _more._ ”

 

Arthur snatches the book back from Francis’ grip. Speeds the pages of the book through his fingers, until he reaches the page that he was on, before he was so rudely interrupted. He then shoves the book in Francis’ face, and says, with the irritation of a disrespected schoolteacher, “Read the section I’ve highlighted in turquoise.” Then he begins to lecture.

 

“O.K., there’s a revenge plot swirling around with the Count and his machinations. But other things are unfolding at the same time. Look at Chapter Ninety-Five. You may recall here the subplot where the nobleman M. Danglars (one of the count’s future victims) wants his daughter — Eugenie Danglars to marry this aristocrat she has no love for — to uphold their family’s noble image.”

 

“He reminds her of how she is tied down by her family’s legacy, their history. She must be dragged down with disappointment, if that is what the arranged marriage holds for her. Her history necessitates it.”

 

“In the novel, so far, we’ve only seen the example of the Count twisting his deeds to match the evil done to him in  his past.

 

“See how Lady Danglars responds instead to her father’s insistence that she be tied down to her obligations and her history as a member of the Danglars history.”

 

Francis reads out the section:

 

_“in the shipwreck of life—for life is an eternal shipwreck of our hopes—I cast into the sea my useless encumbrance, that is all, and I remain with my own will, disposed to live perfectly alone, and consequently perfectly free.”_

 

Arthur can’t help but grin: “Clever girl gives the middle finger to the illusion that she _must_ live a life pervaded with a sense of waste — as a slave to her family, her past and her history. She rejects the marriage that is foisted upon her, and makes her own decisions unfettered by others.”

 

And then with more vigour and energy he adds: “Later, she even elopes with her true love, her singing teacher Louise d’Armilly, to the shock and scandal of everyone else. They create their own little love story, away from the brutal machinations of the Count’s revenge plot, and the novel.”

 

“Is that not beautiful?”

 

Arthur can’t quite read the expression on Francis’ face — the room’s lighting means that he can only be sure that his lips are wryly arching across his countenance. That usually signifies the sharpening of a verbal blade, and Arthur braces for impact.

 

“You know, Arthur, some would say that Louise and Eugenie were just _friends_ that ran away from Eugenie’s troubled family situation. And that you are reading far too much into their relationship.”

 

There it is. Arthur bristles in absolute indignation. Takes up his pen, and jabs Francis hard in his chest. “And you call yourself the Nation of Love! For chrissake, Louise and Eugenie are said to sleep together in the same bed. Everyone comments on how _intimate_ their so called ‘friendship’ is. Dumas even uses the phrase ‘the breast of Sappho’ to refer to Eugenie’s nature. He literally refers to the poetess that lived on the island that lesbians are named after. How much queer subtext do you bloody need?”

 

With an unassailable conviction, Arthur declares: “Screw you Francis. This is _love_ that escapes from the entanglements and trappings of vendettas and grievances. Eugenie and Louise figure out how stupid it is to be tied down by the past, ages before the Count even has an inkling. They learn to, as Dumas writes, _Live and be happy...wait and hope_.”

 

Arthur stands upright, chin raised and defiant, challenging Francis to even try rebut his argument. His emerald eyes pierce deeply into azure ones. Until, he realises that his glower is completely lost on Francis — because Francis is laughing, mirthful and amused.  

 

“I know, I know,” Francis’s eyes are twinkling, and he raises his hands in mock surrender. “I just wanted to rile you up. It’s so rare that I get to prod you into stripping off all those prudish pretenses, to expose you bare as the die-hard romantic that you truly are!”

 

Arthur squawks, and rather fails to pass it off as a refined sniff, before he responds “I’m just interpreting the text as it was intended to be understood.”

 

“Sure, mon cher, revert back to your priggish facade. With you, it’s always one step forward, two steps back — into splendid emotional suppression” Francis teases. Arthur is surprised to find himself letting out a shaky breath of relief, so he can’t quite respond to Francis’ words.  

 

“Although come now, Angleterre, perhaps after Dumas, you could read a nicer book. A Tale of Two Cities, perhaps? A story intertwining both our hearts, our capitals...”

 

Arthur rolls his eyes in irritation. “The title is misleading. You mean a Tale briefly of London, but mostly of Paris. Chiefly about how sure, England and its justice system is corrupt — we’re going to talk about that for a while. But by jove, the Frenchies are so bonkers — we’ll spend chapter after chapter talking about how barmy they’ve become.” Arthur adds with a smirk, “I believe I don’t even need to read the book to know how problematic you are.”

 

Arthur is mentally shaking his own hands, congratulating himself for one-upping Francis in the literary arena _TWICE in a row_.

 

But Francis, for some reason, is grinning like a cat that’s got the cream. This unsettles Arthur deeply.

 

“Well of course, Angleterre, comfort yourself with a long story of the glory days when all the angry populism and demagoguery was on the other side of _la Manche_ , and not in England. You would _really need that now, wouldn’t you_.”

 

Arthur gives Francis a warning look: _This Taunt comes_ _Too Soon, Too Contemporaneous, Too Fresh, don’t you bloody raise that up as a point..._

 

“Because Brexit.”

 

Over 1,000 pages of _The Count of Monte Cristo_  nearly smash into Francis’ obnoxious countenance. Arthur’s suitcase is next in line for his use as a makeshift projectile. Francis has the nerve to cheer, when it misses. So Arthur doesn’t hesitate to try knock Francis’ head off his shoulders, with the metal chair that he swings at the bloody git. Francis manages to parry, by raising the entire desk over him as a defensive shield.

 

It’s stupid, it’s dangerous, but it’s _them_.

 

Somehow, this is the best that Arthur’s felt in ages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: skip if you please
> 
> I hope the spoilers for the Count of Monte Cristo weren't too much! Personally, this moment in the fic was inspired by a time, when an elderly, more conservative relative exclaimed in shock that I was reading such a dark, and gory, and revenge-y book over the family reunion dinner we were both at......I didn't know how to tell her that I was reading it only for the lesbian lovers :P that people often like to forget about when referring to this cultural landmark. 
> 
> I've also always found it puzzling that sometimes fruk fic writers refer to A Tale of Two Cities in their fics, as a book symbol of the fruk relationship......when I swear that book is mostly about how messed up France was.


	4. What Changes, What Stays, and the things in-between

 

 

There was their relationship, rotting and shrivelling away in this coffin, with England staring at it morosely, reading it it’s last rites. Until out of the blue, it had sprung up, thrown open the coffin lid and screamed “SURPRISE MOTHARFUCKAARR. YOU THOUGHT I WAS DEAD?”. It had swiftly proceeded to upend everything all over again in Arthur’s life.

 

Maybe that’s the TLDR; of Anglo-Franco relations.

 

They exchange volleys of insults over text messages. Engage in snark-to-snark combat over phone calls (because real life face time is not enough to get it out of their system). There are long emails, that really belong to the long, winding speeches before epic set-piece battles in dramatised historical enactments.   

 

It’s breathtaking. The alacrity with which everything had snapped back together. Arthur can’t help but feel giddy at the thought of how quickly they’ve fallen back in step with each other, because of how deeply their quarrelsome ways are coded into their being.

 

Things get so good, Arthur finds himself taking the chunnel to Paris more often. And when he does, Francis is always waiting for him outside the train station, with a smile, and some teasing variation of how ‘he’d gladly offer asylum to another sodden Englishman clawing for an escape from their damp, grey, island’. Earning him a glare from Arthur. Just like that, he would motion for Arthur to come walk with him along the glittering streets of Paris. And Arthur, would respond with some half-hearted slur like “You watch out, you cheese-eating surrender monkey. I’ll might take over your country by accident.”

 

Of course, there are still slip-ups. One time, after Arthur pops out of Gare du Nord Station, the first thing he says to Francis is “Ugh, why does your metro reek so thoroughly of piss.”

 

Immediately, he knows that it’s the wrong thing to say. Francis’ expression darkens. The wistful, romantic air about him dissipates into a horrifying nothingness. He grits out “Really, Angleterre? You have all the sights and smells of my beautiful Paris to behold, but _this_ is what you notice.”

 

A knee-jerk reaction: Arthur scoffs and digs his heels in: “It’s true! You can't deny that there's the stench of piss. It’s what so many tourists comment on when they first arrive in your city. What use is there denying it, when the smell is wafting about everywhere...You might as well go around telling people that gravity doesn’t exist.”

 

Francis’s gaze hardens. Some tiny voice at the back of Arthur’s mind is screaming at him to stop, but centuries of habit continue to stubbornly push him along, over the cliff edge, to the point of no return: “It's hardly my fault — why should I be reproached —” _Arthur can’t slam the brakes_ — “for telling you what is clearly the truth. You,” he points at Francis, “and your people — you talk of prettiness, and elegance. You say that everything must be _perfection_...anything less has no place here. And yet —”

 

“— yet, when push comes to shove, your City of Love doesn’t smell only of pastries and springtime flowers. Your Metro stinks of piss. Because after all that, in truth, you will pick the messiness of the common people, over your abstract renaissance elegance. You _let_ the homeless and the destitute hide away in your Metro, especially during the cold and bitter winters, because liberté, égalité, fraternité, and some things are more important than looking pretty.”

 

“Your hypocrisy — it makes me sick — do you get what I mean?” Arthur finishes furiously, his heartbeat pounding madly in his ears.

 

“Oui, crystal clear, Angleterre,” Francis purrs,  his face now relaxed into an annoying cheshire grin. He readily puts his arm in Arthur’s, before sweeping him across Paris. Arthur is simultaneously infuriated and relieved. He’s not sure how long he’s going to be able to last like this — to be able to keep his trap shut and all the poisonous insults in — especially when Paris is such that every time he visits, he finds more reasons to hate the city.

 

For instance, Arthur can't help but tell Francis that _You French are too poncey_ . Bloody hell, they just need to grab a bite at a cafe. But no, the cafe has to toast the bread, like the bread itself is a five star dish. And the fillings, what kind of schmancy-bourgeois stuff do they even put in there? And the system is also completely rigged, because how is Arthur supposed to make his incredulity known to Francis, when whatever drugs the French put in their food makes Arthur _gag himself,_ by stuffing as much of it in his mouth as quickly as possible, effectively making him shut himself up.

 

And France is a den of temptation and debauchery. For god's sake, they have entire shops dedicated to just selling cheese (‘fromageries’), which is obviously just an excuse so they can pair it with wine and get drunk. And oh, Francis keeps plying him with too many wines, until his head spins from all the flavours, and the bevy of wine appreciation tips that Francis serenades him with in a lilting tone; and then the blasted frog has to nerve to laugh when his stiff-upper lip isn't so stiff anymore, and he can’t argue back properly.

 

And finally, French are _just plain rude_.

 

Arthur, completely drunk, just wants to stumble along the River Seine looking thoroughly put out by every French civilian. But this blasted bereted mine has the AUDACITY  to mock his uptight mannerisms. This is nothing short of _CASUS BELLI._ He will respond by mocking the mime’s mimicry in furious retaliation! God save the Queen! So the First Anglo-Franco Pantomime war begins! Bollocks to the bystanders asphyxiating with laughter. Along with the French philosophical types standing around, watching he and the friggin bereted frog mime their way into satirical infinite regression, with all the seriousness they would pay some Derridian poststructuralist commentary on ‘sign’, ‘signifier’ and ‘symbol’.

 

(Eventually, Francis has to drag him away, while he's still hollerin“you got nuthin on Rowan Atkinson, ya hear me? NUTHIN.” “Oh Angleterre, there's no doubt you would have won. If not eventually because you would be arguing with an enfeebled old man” )

 

Francis, surprisingly, decides to return the visit — grace the poor sodden mess that is British Isles with his lovely presence — because what else would the poor English folk live for? Arthur meets him at Waterloo station, and greets him with a smack of a rolled up copy of _The Sunday Times_.

 

Together, they stroll through Trafalgar Square. Point at the columns, the arches and the statued impressions of people they used to know so well…...

 

Francis makes a disappointed crooning-noise in his throat, when he sees that there are no more vendors selling pigeon feed to eager tourists. “Really”, he sighs dramatically, “Somehow I find myself missing your crazen devil-hordes of pigeons. Your people and tourists eagerly offering up their foodstuffs to the winged harbingers of poor sanitation — and the inevitable ‘shitzkrieg’ they would unleash on your dear Nelson’s monument. The ultimate essentialization of the Anglo-Saxon spirit!”

 

Arthur scowls, but _kind of_ agrees. Then, infected with French cooties (i.e.civil disobedience), he screeches at this security guard that’s forbids these parents from putting their little kids between the paws of the large iconic lion statues. Francis, backs him up with a shout of “Viva la Revolution.” Then the security team arrives. The Anglo-Franco duo chuck them into the fountain. And make what both have always preferred to diplomatically word as a _tactical retreat_.

 

On another day, Arthur meets Francis along his coastline at Dover. As Francis skips off the ferry boat to join him near the docks, Arthur tries to memorise every detail of the experience: golden sunlight glimmering off Francis’ hair, the salty scent of the ocean breeze mingling with those silky locks, and the way fresh air fills up their lungs, adding colour to their faces.

 

And then suddenly, Francis’ arm is wrapped and pressed tightly against his, his face smiling startlingly close to Arthur’s. It takes Arthur _everything_ to try regain enough presence of his mind, to pull Francis along to this spot he’d spread a picnic mat across, near a lighthouse at the White Cliffs of Dover. From a large knapsack,  he pulls out what he proudly thinks are ten particularly handsome kites. “Handmade — I designed them myself,” he tells Francis, with a hint of pride.

 

“Kite-flying? Surely there’s something more stylish and sophisticated we can do today, rather than this childish sport.” Francis sniffs, his designer coat and scarf now very evident.

 

“...Trust me, by the end of today you’ll be _begging_ to take those words back, you frog...”

 

Despite this early vote against his plans, Arthur stubbornly hands a kite over to Francis.

 

As soon as Francis takes the kite, Arthur notes smugly, that the promising seeds of repentance are shimmering in his cerulean eyes. Francis lets out a hum of delight, as said kite immediately comes alive between his fingers — shivering and crackling at the lightest touch of the breeze. Of course, as one would expect of his nature, Francis quickly lets go of the kite, so it soars eagerly out of his hands, carried by the wind to a place amongst the sun’s rays.

 

After that, it’s a scramble — to get more and more kites in the air: ones that puff up like linen-clouds...ones that swirl about in a whirlpool of colours...ones that trail excessively long iridescent tails across the horizon...

                                            

 

                                                                    

 

 

Then, they’re laughing and trying to do kite tricks: loop-the-loops, cartwheels and downward swoops. There’s a little good natured competition, where they snidely give each other tips, and try to one up each other's kite tricks with something more extravagant each time.

 

After a while, Francis takes a kite down, and starts to tie something to it with nimble fingers. Arthur braces himself, and watches cautiously, because he suspects that Francis is about to do something mean — like tie a key to the kitestring, so when he lets the kite fly back into the air, he can maneuver it, such that the jagged edge of the key cuts off the string of one of Arthur’s kites, causing it to be lost to the sky’s void forever...  

 

But when Arthur looks closer, he realises that contrary to his fears, Francis is _not_ tying anything sharp to the kite to weaponise it. Instead, he’s fiddling with a dainty fairy-like trinket, that Arthur guesses he’d cleverly fashioned out his blue hair ribbon, and a few tiny seashells he’d picked up earlier — from the beaches of Calais before getting on the ferry. “For you, mon petit Angleterre,” Francis calls out, giving Arthur a cheeky wink, before releasing the kite. It shoots up into the air, and the fairy strung along to it flies higher and higher — with beautifully, fluttering blue-ribboned wings…...

 

Instantly, Arthur is hit by another vision from another time: when a young, and irritated Britannia spent hours and hours running across fields,  chasing after yet another one of those pesky silk ribbons that Gaul liked to tie in his hair, which the blasted wind always managed to work free and carry away like a prize...

 

Of the summer breezes that would sweep over the tall grasses in the fields of Normandy where the two of them had first met, carrying the scent of earth, and grass and flowers.

 

Of the zephyrs, that billowed the pretty, voluminous tunic of a rosy-cheeked youth, and the dusty green cloak of an irritated boy that just wanted it to stop blowing leaf-bits into his eyebrows.

 

Of the wind, that tousled silky golden locks of hair until they melted into the air like spun-sunlight…...that cranked the windmills of two strange lands in the Middle Ages until their personifications started quarreling over whose windmill design was superior…...that puffed up the sails of English and French boat that took off on long journeys in search of the New World….or directed this ridiculous contraption fuelled by hot air that Arthur insisted was ludicrous but Francis maintained was romantic because it would carry a rooster, a duck, and a sheep for the first time in flight over the heads of the French court in Versailles….  

 

And then, memory swings back to the earliest days, when the colours of the world were too vivid and bright to actually be real. When a grumpy little boy would angrily insist that his self-proclaimed ‘grand frère’ hoist him up onto his ‘strong’ shoulders, so he could look at very top of the tallest shrubs, where the fairies would lovingly put their little babies in cradles, so the wind could gently rock them to sleep…...

 

Arthur shoots an equally formidable grin back at Francis. Because today, there is the two of them, running along the White Cliffs of Dover, with kites soaring in the air, like wishes trying to fill up the sky……

 

                                                                   

                                                                   

 

In the evening, just before he leaves to take a ferry back to France, Francis nearly makes Arthur’s eyes pop out, and his heart burst in his chest, when he admits that he _actually did_ enjoy what they had for lunch: cod, cooked crisp in lard and batter, drizzled over in balsamic vinegar, and lightly dusted in sea salt. British, but _snackable_.

 

_(Touch wood...Snap a wishbone...Find a four leaf clover...Hang horse shoes all around...will this luck last?)_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Although, as Arthur quickly learns, some things certainly have changed, compared to the past.

 

The first sign is a cordial invitation that Arthur receives — to what Francis cheekily calls a workdate but what Ludwig calls an emergency EU prep session.

 

He arrives in Berlin at six in the morning, German time, to meet Francis and Ludwig at the station.

 

At first it is puzzling, and painfully awkward. Arthur finds himself uneasily trying to skirt around the powerhouse that is Francis’ and Ludwig’s dynamic collaboration. After finishing a modest pile of relatively trivial paperwork, and eying how the duo’s working styles complement each other so _perfectly_ , Arthur is frustrated, and wants nothing more than to leave. But Francis pins him down to his seat, with this open, honest, anxious look that he probably doesn’t know he’s shooting Arthur — every now and then when he looks up from his work to glance at the stuffy Englishman...as though he were worried that Arthur might disappear...

 

And then, in a swift moment, with an intangible build-up, all the pieces fall together. Arthur starts sniggering at the sight of Ludwig and Francis scrambling about like headless chickens: Ludwig wildly gesticulating at Francis from across the room, and Francis indignantly shushing him whilst charismatically cooing at whatever vital personage is on the telephone.

 

It’s all too easy to join forces with Ludwig, to bully technophobic Francis into accepting that "there's an app for this!" (“The trick, you see, is to threaten to steal his carry-on chapstick and moisturiser.” “...NON, LUDWIG!!! DON’T LISTEN TO HIS SAVAGERY!!!” “Or you keep speaking with a terrible French accent until he agrees to use the apps—” “— ROSBIF DON’T YOU DARE —” “—For instance ‘zees eez le baguette ohonhonhon’—” “— Merde — ”)

 

The three of them fall in step with each other, when they escape from Ludwig’s office building, into the crisp wintery air of noontime Berlin, humming with the catchy tunes of streetside buskers. Francis chatters on and on about all the pretty things he notices about Berlin, Ludwig nods his head intently, and Arthur throws in his more utilitarian observations into the mix.

 

As they pass under the broad-brimmed shade of a tree, Arthur fancies that time slows down a little — just enough for him to observe how dappled sunlight falls on Francis and Ludwig, how jovially the former links his arm with the latter, and how he's looking at the dusting of little snowflakes on Ludwig’s nose. He feels something like the sensation of a key warming in his hand...the need to let out something from a certain door

 

“The two of you will be good for each other. I wish the both of you all the happiness in the world,” Arthur finds himself saying, quite sincerely, despite how each word constricts his chest agonisingly.

 

Francis and Ludwig are startled — clearly the ongoing conversation was nowhere near this territory. Almost too quickly, Francis responds: “Non, non, non, Arthur — the two of us are just friends —” he laughs — “with some benefits I’ll admit — but nothing more!”

 

“Riiight,” Arthur responds skeptically, not entirely convinced. Francis is not done speaking though, and Arthur reads depth in his eyes when he continues, “I however, along with Ludwig, wish you and Alfred all the luck in love.” There is even the slightest tremble to Francis’ lilting voice as he says this.

 

It’s Arthur’s turn to be utterly baffled.

 

“Please don’t say that in front of Ivan — he will _definitely_ assassinate me in my sleep, even I was the one that gave him tips on how to _proposition_ Alfred in the first place...”

 

“Besides,” Arthur adds haughtily, “I will have you know that I wrote a _fifty page_ theory on personality trait compatibility, based on our American and Russian — complete with diagrams, flowcharts, and excel sheets. Cambridge is publishing it, by the way.”

 

Ludwig perks up, “You mentioned diagrams, flowcharts, and excel sheets.”

 

Arthur’s countenance twists into a deranged grin, and he whips something out of his suitcase.

 

Francis and Ludwig quickly learn why Hungary, Japan, and Korea rejected Arthur’s application to the Yaoi fanclub, citing ‘intensity’ as their primary reason.

 

 

* * *

 

The sensation of a key warming in his hand intensifies. In fact, it spreads out, permeating his entire being — as though the universe were wrapping him up in a swaddling cloth, and babying his every whim. And he sees in his mind a wondrous vision: a building full of doors, so many possibilities, so many futures he could walk into if only he were willing to use that key.

 

Now, that he’s certain that Francis is single and available on the market again — he can freely indulge in — and yes he can outright call it that now — his massive crush on the Frenchman. (he’d read far too much Austen, and Bridget Jones to not be able to recognise infatuation, especially if it had been going on for centuries.)

 

So he gives himself full licence to read too much into Francis’ every word an action:

 

Go giddy with glee when Francis casually comments that Earl Grey cream might make good choux filling.

 

Soak up and savour every lilt and syllable of Francis’ voice, over the telephone or over his shoulder, when they’re physically apart or together.

 

Or wake up with his insides completely messed up, when someone breaks into his apartment at 3am, wielding a bag of groceries, and an umbrella for fencing, because “ _surely the second Great Fire of London will happen if incorrigible Angleterre tries cooking his own breakfast_ ”)

 

(All along his apartment, Arthur hangs: rabbit foots and sprigs of lilies of the valley. He cheers far too much when a ladybug lands on his balcony rail. If Francis notices this latest eccentricity in his behaviour, he does not comment.

 

Lady fortune has smiled upon him, and Arthur swears that this time, _he’ll take the chance._ )


	5. What can I say, except I love you?

Unfortunately, for all the best laid plans of mice and men, Arthur’s completely fucks up those he made for **_Valentine's Day_ **.

 

The World meeting that precedes each year’s Valentine’s Day celebrations starts at one.

 

It is _four_ , when Arthur’s motorbike screeches to a halt, at the base of the neo-classical building that the meeting is being held in.

 

Self-consciously, Arthur checks himself in his motorbike’s side mirrors. And screams internally. Oh God, his hair is such a tangle, not even birds will nest there, not even if the rest of the world were spikes.

 

And he probably reeks. He’d been sweat-soaked in sweltering heat, and then drenched sopping wet by torrential rains, before arriving. Only his waterproofed trench coat lends to his appearance some semblance of order.

 

 _“Dammit,” —_ he spots the nations slowly filing out of the building — the meeting obviously over. Cursing his own poor timing, Arthur dashes up the building’s stone steps, trying to make up for lost timing. His eyes dart to and fro, searching for a specific suave and smiling countenance, amidst the swirling sea of nation’s faces. But this quest is not too hard, for like how Ariadne’s thread guided Theseus out of the Labyrinth of the Minataur, there are clues to lead Arthur to the one he is seeking out.

 

You see, every Valentine's Day, just after this particular meeting ends, the self-proclaimed country of love will present each and every national personification with a single rose. Hence, the ocean of roses that are bobbing about in the air, held aloft by nations, as they make their way down the balustrade stairs. All Arthur has to do is barrel through these nations upstream, to the epicentre of where the roses are radiating from…

 

Arthur’s heart is pounding furiously in his chest, and into his ears. Trying to distract from the stress, Arthur keeps track of and counts the number of roses, because it’s like counting sheep right? Instead the stars dancing about his vision burn brighter — when a sonorous voice tangles with his thoughts, and whispers into his ear a lesson about roses, their numbers, and what they mean when they are gathered together in a bouquet...

 

_One rose (love at first sight)_

 

_Two roses (your love is returned)_

  


Arthur spots Tino and Berwald. Tino is tickling Berwald on the nose with the rose, as Berwald sneezes...Arthur can’t help but wonder if this is what _they_ could be, as he leaves the marble steps of the building behind, and enters the building’s ornate entrance…...

 

_Ten roses (you are perfection)_

 

_Twenty roses (believe in our love)_

 

_Thirty six roses (I cherish our moments, keep them in my heart...)_

 

Abruptly, a hand reaches out from the crowd, and slams him against a pillar.

 

It's Antonio — brandishing his rose like a customised weapon of torture, his green eyes gleaming like the shattered end of a beer bottle. “You’re late, mi amigo. Bad move. You’ll want to watch out, if you keep making such _stupid_ blunders.”

 

Behind him, is the ridiculous Prussian — Gilbert — crudely sliding the stem of his rose across his throat, and making gurgling and slitting noises for sound effect.

 

Arthur scowls, and pushes them off. Romano and Matthew are more much more helpful to his cause. The former angrily hauls two-thirds of the Bad Touch Trio away, screaming into their ears about _micromanaging other people’s lives._ Matthew the sweetheart, uses his rose, to point down one of the branching hallways.

 

Arthur firmly nods his head, and continues on his journey.   

 

_Forty-four roses (till death do us part)_

 

_Fifty roses (unconditional love)_

 

_Seventy-seven roses (it was fate that we’ve met)_

 

Arthur just groans, when Ludwig brushes past his shoulder so hard, that he’s nearly knocked off his feet. He almost doesn’t bother to register the threat growled into his ear,  “Just remember, I can snap you like a twig.”

 

How many shovel talks is he going to have to sit through? How painfully obvious were his plans for today? And does he appear so unreliable that nearly everyone needs to warn him off……

 

(Of course he does. To them all it seems like he’s just _horrendously_ late, and for one of the few occasions this year that actually matters — Valentines Day. And yet here he still is, still wandering through these hallways, with the gall to hope that Francis is such a loser that he’s still stuck sitting around waiting for him, rather than the freaking pinnacle of gorgeousness and charm that has places to go, who deserves to be waited on hand and foot, rather than treated like this shitshow Arthur’s……)

 

His salvation arrives in the unexpected form of Feliciano. To Arthur’s infinite shock he silences Ludwig by pulling him into a deep kiss, his softness and reverence in touch melting into the rigid ardence of Ludwig’s figure. When they part for air, Feliciano gives Arthur a cheeky wink, that says “Buona fortuna”, and also “there’s still some time to mend things”. And then he takes off, whisking off a blushing Ludwig who’s still stuttering as he hangs off the Italian’s arm.

 

  
Well...that’s probably counts as a good sign….

 

_99 roses....._

 

Finally, passing a corridor, Arthur drinks in a sight that brings him relief. France, still sitting by a window.

 

Even standing by the doorframe, Arthur catches a whiff of Francis’ perfume — lilies and lavender — that sings of _softness_ and _elegance._ The sophisticated cut of Francis’ suit: a tight-fitting jet-black vest and a fuchsia undershirt wrapping especially tightly about his waist bring out the slightness and strength of his figure.

 

And of course, there is Francis’ hair, swept down his right shoulder in glorious cascading curls, it's spun-sunlight ethereality brought out by the solid shine of its rose-gold clasp by the crook of his neck. Their striking beauty is only paralleled by the intense vividness of Francis’ azure eyes, set off beautifully by the sapphire earrings hanging by each ear.

 

This is a siren’s song, each note hit upon so perfectly, that any sailor would gladly throw themselves to their watery deaths just to drown in that enchanting melody. And any bright-eyed youth after reckless Paris, would still hand the golden apple to Aphrodite over Hera and Athena, in vain hope. Even they knew the tragedy of the Iliad by heart...

 

(...Arthur wants nothing more than to to brush his chapped lips against the softness of Francis’ neck……

 

But the thought also makes him feel nauseous…..

 

Because isn’t that what the rest of the world thought, when they’d passed Francis?

 

Isn’t he permanently…'on call’ during Valentine's Days?

 

...For all the lonely nations, that can’t bear to sit alone with their frustrations, their hands, and a box of tissues… Just shoot him a text, and Big Brother France will be there...)

 

But Arthur pushes these thoughts down.

 

Instead, he’s preoccupied another more pressing observation: there is a heaviness about Francis in this moment.

 

His gaze is downcast, fixed on his hands. Slender fingers curl about thin air. Not a single rose rests between them... Not one rose for Francis…...This…...was surprising. Arthur wonders why he’d never noticed before, that hardly anyone ever thought of giving roses to the nation of love, when _he_ gave them out so freely and so abundantly.

 

And so, the nation of love was now staring at the angry red scratches criss-crossing his palms — Francis never did believe in shorning roses of their thorns — looking oddly pensive.

 

And as the afternoon light streaming from the window by him fades, eerie things are done to the depths of his face. Shadows pool in the callouses on his palms, and in the shallows under his eyes that Francis always pretends isn’t there….

 

“You reek, you know. Like someone who got dumped in a ditch full of roses. No wonder they warn — that the fragrance of roses lingers around the the hand that gives them out. Really, frog. You should have listened —”

 

Francis looks up.

 

Arthur tries to (casually) slide himself to the seat beside Francis. For a moment, he sees Francis’ expression melt into appreciative relief, before a thought flits across his mind — that crashes indignance and hurt across his face like a rogue wave.

 

“Well if it isn't the Black Sheep of Europe — I don't suppose he has any reason for why he’s so _unfashionably late, on the day of l’amour._ ”

 

Arthur blinks, the glinting edge of the rapier in Francis’ voice cutting deep into him.  

 

“I’m sorry...I’m truly sorry...I got…...held up,” Arthur fumbles for words. In a blind panic, he sticks his hand on the inside of his trench coat and sparks some magic there. “Here’s a peace offering though?” he manages to say out nervously,

 

With trepidation, he pulls out of his coat flaps a steaming cup of tea that he’d just conjured up then and there.

 

He slides it anxiously, across the table to Francis, watching closely for his reaction.

 

 

For a moment, it seems like he’s forgiven.

 

Francis gives him a funny look — one elegant eyebrow raised, and one corner of his lips quirked slightly downward. His hands catch and cradle the steaming cup, so the porcelain warms the cuts on his palms. The spark starting in Francis’ eye suggests that he is mildly impressed with how the silvery bud that slowly blooms in the cup as it absorbs the heat of the water swirling about it. And after he lifts the cup to his lips to take a first sip, the cerulean depths of his pupils are alight with all the wondrous velocity of thought that an experienced chef greets a flavourful drink.

 

 _‘Of course he likes it’,_ Arthur thinks giddily, ‘ _I just stole it from Queen Titania, Ruler of all the Fae folk, with a shoddy spell’._ One day, he’ll wake up cursed to be a crumpet, his eyebrows mounted above the Fairy Queens throne. But for now, he thinks that it's all worth it…...

 

Then abruptly, Francis’ expression crumples, as though stricken by a thought so terrible, the tea’s tastes more abhorrent than bile. He sets the cup down with a sigh so heavy, it threatens to crumble all of Arthur’s being.

 

Silence looms over them, like the blade of a guillotine.

 

When Francis finally speaks, his voice is soft — but in the way physics states that the light flutter of a butterfly’s wing might sets off a tornado elsewhere. “Thank you Arthur, I appreciate the tea. But it still doesn’t change one very important fact…” Here, Francis pauses briefly...

 

“Arthur, you were busy preparing something special for someone else during today , which is why you were late — I know.”

 

Immediately, Arthur starts protesting, but the intense quality of Francis’ gaze crushes all his words.

 

“No — I have to say this, let me finish Angleterre.”

 

So Arthur stares at him, like his whole existence boils down to Francis’ every breath, and word, and expression.

 

“Listen, Arthur — you certainly won’t believe your ears when you hear it.”

 

There’s a laugh, silvery and lovely in the way beautiful and tragic things are.

 

“It’s hard for me to say I love you…...but please believe me when I say… that I truly do.”

 

 _“Oh,”_ Arthur thinks, completely dazed.

 

“Mon coeur, mon beau Angleterre. I have wasted all my poetry and art on whirlwind romances. I have lavished my most passionate kisses and most skillful moves in bed on the most trivial one-night stands. So now…...I have nothing truly special to give you, no matter how much I want to...So it is no wonder…” — here Francis chokes a little — “it no wonder you don't return my feelings. You are wise, you keep your loveliest turns of phrase, and your most ardent declarations of love to yourself — until that special person that manages to capture your heart comes along. I am clearly not that person…”

 

“I know — I can see it from how you smile, amused, whenever you see me flirt with others — like you’re watching the silly antics of some wool-brained eccentric. When it already drives me _crazy_ just seeing you chatter with Alfred, even though I know now that you’re only brothers.”

 

“We shouldn’t talk to each other for a while after this, just give me enough time to get over — ”

 

Sharply, Francis stops. Arthur stares at him blankly in return. Their eyes shift slowly to their hands. Arthur’s hands have caught Francis’ midair, just a heartbeat before they could fly to Francis’ silken locks, to tug at them like he does when he’s distressed.

 

Arthur gently sets Francis’ hands on his lap, his emerald eyes never wavering from cerulean. Then he tries to find words, not even the best ones, just anything to fill the silence between them before the moment slips away. Eventually he settles on this as an opening line: “Francis, you’re completely wrong.” Because isn't that what he’d always loved to tell him, since long ago?

 

“You...make too much of my hesitance to express affection. I am just as afraid as you are, of baring my heart, and making myself vulnerable. In fact it’s also lack of practice, that makes me unwilling to try put my...fondness for you into words.”

 

“And your flirting...you’re kind of right — I’m always entranced when I watch you do it — the way with a few words and fashion tips, you bring out the charm in anyone. Until the world stops spinning, and we all realise that oh god, the person you were hitting on, they were beautiful all along. I’ve seen you make the days of so many strangers like that. You’re also partly wrong, however, because it strains all of my acting skills to stop my jealousy from showing…especially whenever you find the need to preface anything nice you do for me with “Big Brother France”......”

 

“But back to my reluctance to voice my deepest the feelings of my heart. You know I don’t have practice, so it’s hard for me to say I love you — even though by God, I do! But fortunately, for clumsy idiots for me there are…”

 

_Arthur sparks some more magic under the table, hoping desperately with all his heart that this magic spells works._

 

It does. After a dazzling flash of light, Francis gasps — because bouquets of roses start falling all around them in a neat circle. Ten bouquets in total. Ten roses in them each. Arthur catches one, and holds it out to Francis.  

 

“Fortunately for idiots like me, who are clumsy with words...there are roses.”

 

Arthur is breathless, so the words come out raspily, not at all suave. And with the loud ringing in his ears from how bloody petrified he is, he can’t quite hear whatever words Francis is whispering.

 

The roses in the bouquet — they come in a disorganised riot of colours, and varieties, shapes and sizes. There’s only one common thing that these roses share, that unifies them into a bouquet…...


	6. What can I say except "I love you?" (Continued...)

                                                        

 

“They’re nothing much,” Arthur chokes out with a dry mouth. “Florists find them all the time, in their supplies of roses that are delivered to them. But they throw them away, because these roses are deformed, and ugly.”

  


Which is, again, a half-truth.

  


Because what Arthur wants to ask Francis is this: Doesn’t he also think, that in a most peculiar way, these ‘defective’ roses are beautiful?

  


That although these blossoms are no doubt nature’s ‘mistakes’, don’t they look so tender? Coming from all over the world, and despite being such garden varieties, haven’t they all still found something special? Appearing like petaled-lovers that had pressed against each other so ardently, that the faeries granted their wish and allowed them to join together as one.

  


Aren’t these roses, freaks of nature, just as freakish as like the two of them -- personifications of their nations but also just human? And can Arthur and Francis be like these roses...drawing close together…...?

  


But all these meanings are scattered everywhere in his mind — he can't gather them up together and present them nicely to Francis like a gift. Not like how he could call in favours from all the faerie folk in the world, to gather all these peculiar roses together into a bouquet for Francis. Or madly teleport about florist shops in England using his nation-shifting abilities, to scrounge up these roses, until he was almost too late for the meeting today. It’s just him and his emotional stuntedness now. And argh, he knows he’s doing that sullen, brooding thing right now, where he just sulks at Francis like a child. All while expecting the Frenchman to know _exactly_ what he wants to say, even if Arthur himself can’t make sense of the awful mishmash of his own feelings that slosh about him.

  


Francis pulls through. His right hand lightly carcasses one of Arthur's cheeks, and thumbs the rims of his ear so fondly, it sends shivers ricocheting down Arthur’s spine.

  


Slowly, Francis guides Arthur closer, while himself leaning slightly forward. Until their lips meet. Arthur can’t help but let out a contented sigh when that happens. Francis’ lips are softer than he could ever have imagined, and there’s the sweet taste of whatever vanilla chapstick he’s using. Embarrassingly enough, when Francis’ tongue flicks out to lick his lips and he can't help but laugh and draw away slightly. To look into cerulean eyes, glistening slightly with tears, because if Francis is feeling anything close to what he’s feeling, then of course he’s crying, his heart is close to bursting with happiness.  

  


They both laugh.

  


“Well, mon amour, I’m glad we haven’t missed out on any of the typical drama that happens during a love confession scene in literature — !” Arthur and he snigger.

 

“But,” Francis swiftly adds, “Perhaps it is now time for us to move to more...intimate forms to express our _mutual admiration_.” His hands now suggestively tug at the collar of Arthur’s trenchcoat, as his being takes on a despicably debonair mien.

  


Arthur rolls his eyes, “You’re incorrigible, you know that? Are you sure you don’t want me to freshen up first? I think I need a shower.”

  


“Trust me, with your hair ruffled like that, and your crisp scent of _guy_ and petrichor -- you’re the delectable embodiment of boyishness begging to be defiled.” — and that voice immediately sends all of Arthur’s blood running up his face, but also _down south_.

  


So Arthur smirks, and leans back, and lets Francis take him _just like that_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END!
> 
> This fic is dedicated to a dear friend of mine, and her adventures in finding love, infatuation, and everything in between, whilst struggling to study for a major examination. So dramatic! (never underestimate crushes...they scary).
> 
> Also I might do a related oneshot, where Francis realises that Arthur can cook (a la chapter 1). So maybe look out for that?
> 
> Pls do leave constructive criticism for the fic in the reviews.
> 
> Above all, thanks for reading!


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